


only fools rush in

by brett (orphan_account)



Series: i've got soul, but i'm not a soldier [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I will go down with this shippp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/brett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musichetta pursed her lips. </p><p>“I am going to set this up. You are going to dress up and take Éponine Thénardier to a nice restaurant and yes, Samuel Alexander Combeferre, you will enjoy every fucking minute of it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	only fools rush in

“You need to get out more,” Musichetta said as she frosted a chocolate cupcake with a twill of her wrist. Combeferre always admired her precision. He hoped when he was a surgeon he’d have that kind of control.

“What makes you say I don’t get out?” He asked. Musichetta rolled her eyes dramatically. She was dabbing little pink hearts on the frosting with a sort of artistic chaos. The rest of the bakery was covered in red and green but Musichetta insisted that what really sold best at this time of year was romantic shit.

“What are you doing tonight?” She asked. Combeferre knew it was a trap.

“I’m hanging out with Enjolras,” he said and frowned as Musichetta raised her thin, penciled eyebrows dramatically. “

You mean you guys are going to watch CNN at his apartment, yell at the TV and pass out at midnight. That’s not exactly a wild Friday night,” Musichetta mused.

“Would you rather I pulled a Grantaire and passed out in an alleyway? Besides, what are you doing tonight?” Combeferre asked. He knew hyperbole wasn’t the best technique in an argument but Musichetta had touched a nerve. He knew he only had a year and a half of college left and then, fingers crossed, he’d be in Boston where he heard it was cold and people actually cared about sports and worst of all, it was away from his friends.

“Joly is taking me to a club,” Musichetta said proudly.

“Joly would never go to a club,” Combeferre muttered. Musichetta pursed her lips.

“He will because he loves me and we’re challenging each other. That’s what couples do,” Musichetta said. She was gloating. It was infuriating how superior she looked while frosting cupcakes.

“Well some of us aren’t as lucky as you and Joly,” Combeferre snapped. He almost added _And Lesgle_ but thought that might be a touch too mean.

Musichetta put her unfinished cupcake down, wiped her hands on her apron then placed them firmly on her hips. It was startling how much she looked like his mother when she did that.

“And whose fault is that? When was the last time you went on a date?” She cried.

Combeferre shrugged. “There was Marie last year—“

“ _Last year_. You are a handsome, intelligent young anarchist and there is no reason you shouldn’t have a lovely girlfriend to look at pictures of moths with.” Musichetta resumed frosting with an uncharacteristic scowl.

“Firstly, I’m not an anarchist, that’s Enjolras on a bad day. Secondly, I don’t know any girls,” Combeferre cried, his cheeks warming.

“You know me,” Musichetta said, shrugging.

“Are you available?”

“No!”

“Well then…”

Musichetta rolled her eyes (God, it was impressive the way she did it) and took her cell phone out of her apron pocket.

“Let’s see… Azelma’s too young… Adeline’s still in rehab… Do you know Beatrix? No, she just got that awful dye job. Ellie’s a chemistry major… But she’s a republican, shit. Wait, what…” Musichetta looked up from her phone, a wicked smile forming on her face.

“Who? A drug addict republican with a bad dye job?” Combeferre remarked dryly.

“Have you ever considered a date with Éponine?” Musichetta said. Combeferre made a face.

“She’s… young. And… She’s… Éponine? And I think she has a thing with Grantaire,” Combeferre muttered.

“If you can’t see what _that’s_ about you’re way too stupid to be a doctor.” Musichetta resumed her frosting, a small grin fixed on her face.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and reiterate. She’s Éponine,” Combeferre said.

“She’s cute!”

“When she washes her hair.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither was making fun of my social life.”

Musichetta pursed her lips. “I am going to set this up. You are going to dress up and take Éponine Thénardier to a nice restaurant and yes, Samuel Alexander Combeferre you will enjoy every fucking minute of it.”

And with that she picked up the biggest and most sprinkle covered cupcake and placed it in front of Combeferre with a smile.

\---

“What do I even do? Do I buy flowers?” Combeferre cried to a sympathetic Feuilly and a giggling Courfeyrac. He was lying on Feuilly’s couch while Courfeyrac ran in and out with tie options.

“Maybe a corsage? How fancy is this restaurant?” Feuilly mused.

“Very. Oh God, Éponine in a fancy restaurant. This is going to be a disaster.” Combeferre rolled onto his stomach and groaned loudly.

“You are such a drama queen. Now, be honest, how do you feel about polka dots?” Courfeyrac asked. Combeferre turned his head so as to fix Courfeyrac with a truly menacing glare before rolling towards the wall.

“Maybe something more subtle,” Feuilly muttered.

\---

“Here I am! Do I look like a classy lady?” Éponine cried, bursting out of the bathroom. Grantaire looked up from his sketchbook, eyebrows raised.

“I say this in the most loving way possible, but you look like a prostitute,” he said.

“An expensive one at least?”

“Maybe you should wear a sweater with the dress.”

\---

“Just smile and be your regular, charming self,” Courfeyrac suggested.

“Don’t talk about moths so much,” Feuilly added.

“Maybe tone down the revolution too,” Courfeyrac mused.

\---

“If it gets weird, text me and we can get happy meals and smoke,” Grantaire told Éponine soothingly.

\---

At nine o’clock on the dot (Combeferre was nothing if not punctual) they met by the streetlight outside his apartment. Combeferre wore the same suit he had worn to his father’s funeral with a truly garish blue bowtie picked out by Courfeyrac. He was wearing Feuilly’s overcoat and his hair smelt vaguely of mousse. Éponine had on her usual leather jacket over a black scoop neck dress that looked painted on. Her hair was brushed, for once and tied with a purple ribbon behind her neck in a bun, courtesy of Jehan. He had also let her borrow his cologne and she smelt a little like peroxide and a little like roses.

“Hello Éponine,” Combeferre said stiffly.

“’Sup,” said Éponine.

They walked to the restaurant in silence. Musichetta knew the chef and had managed to get them last-minute reservations so they barely waited a minute before being whisked to a romantic corner with candles and everything. Combeferre tried to take Éponine’s coat but she just laughed and he felt irrationally angry.

“We’ll have a bottle of the house red,” She called to the nearest waiter and Combeferre felt his stomach clench. _So it begins._

“So, Éponine. Have you thought about what you want to study in college?” He said in what he hoped was a jovial voice that did not express his newfound urge to jump out the nearest window. Éponine almost choked on the focaccia she was devouring.

“College isn’t my deal,” She said. The waiter came with the wine and she poured them both liberal servings.

“Why not go to college? There are plenty of scholarships and you’re certainly smart enough,” Combeferre said. This was true. Éponine couldn’t tell you what the Electoral College was but she could list every episode of _Deep Space Nine_ from memory and knew a suspicious amount about first aid.

“I’m not, like, _smart_ smart. Not like you,” Éponine said between gulps of wine.

“You knew more about treating puncture wounds than I did when Marius fell through that window,” He pressed.

“It was all experience,” Éponine muttered airily as she flipped through her menu. “Say, what’s carbonara?”

“It’s a sauce made from eggs. You know, street smarts are actually smarts,” Combeferre said.

“Eggs, gross. And I don’t know. I don’t understand half the words you use,” Éponine muttered.

“Just because my vocabulary is abnormally large…” Combeferre paused. Maybe this wasn’t the best choice of conversation for a date.

“I mean, did you always want to be a doctor?” Éponine asked. She was fingering the edge of her half-finished wine glass thoughtfully. Under the candlelight she looked almost beautiful.

“No. I wanted to be an entomologist until I was eighteen and my dad died of pancreatic cancer. None of the doctors could save him and I wanted to show them all up. It kind of spiraled after that,” Combeferre said slowly. Éponine’s eyes widened.

“I’m okay now and all. You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” He muttered. His untouched wine was started to look pretty good.

“My mom died a few months ago,” Éponine said. She was blinking very quickly, something Combeferre knew, in his medical studies, usually preceded crying.

“I’m sorry,” He said. Éponine seemed to be gained some sort of control, her hand clenched around the corner of the table. Combeferre remembered back when his father was barely cold and the wound was still raw and bloody. He wondered why no one had told him about Éponine’s mom. He wondered if anyone else knew. It certainly explained her behavior over the last few weeks. Hysterics, risk-taking that bordered on suicide, lashing out… He wanted to kick himself for not recognizing the classic signs of grief.

“She um, had an overdose. I mean, I hated her a lot of the time when she was alive so I can’t really complain but I know it blows,” Éponine said. She was smiling but she hadn’t relaxed her grip on the table’s edge.

“I can’t imagine,” Combeferre said.

“Yes you can,” Éponine said.

With a rush of sympathy, Combeferre extended his hand over her white knuckles. He felt them relax under his grip.

“Azelma actually mentioned it when she applied to be part of your stupid club. I thought you knew,” Éponine said.

“No. Maybe I forgot. I'm sorry.”

“’S fine. Like I said, she could be a real cunt.” A passing waiter glared at them and Combeferre knew he should be humiliated but instead he wanted to hit the waiter for staring.

“So why do you think we were set up together?” Éponine said cheerily. She seemed to have recovered. She smiled and pulled her hand out from under his.

“Because Musichetta has too much time on her hands? Though I can’t imagine how,” Combeferre said wryly. This brought a giggle out of Éponine.

That was when the night started to get good.

By twelve they were walking around, arm in arm, laughing hysterically. Combeferre couldn’t tell if he was drunk (he very well could be) or just happy. Éponine had imitated the entirety of Les Amis with startling accuracy and she redid the best of them for no reason, causing the pair to laugh until they cried and passerby’s to stare at them.

“M-my finger is sore! Call an ambulance!” Éponine cried in Joly’s slightly high-pitched nervous voice. Combeferre felt like he was choking or hitting the start of a panic attack. He tried to stray away from feelings too intense and here he was actually breathless from laughter, embarrassing himself on the streets of New York and uproariously happy. He had to remember to buy Musichetta a bouquet of flowers or something.

They waltzed along until they came to Éponine’s apartment, which had always struck Combeferre as being derelict and a little terrifying, but now seemed almost homey. Maybe it was the thought of her up there, helping her little brother with his math homework, humming Katy Perry songs to herself. The building was no longer inhabited by imaginary gangsters as terrifying as monsters under the bed to children. Éponine lived there.

“This is my place,” Éponine said. There were wet marks around her eyes from laughing so hard and her dark eye shadow was starting to run but still she looked lovely and alive.

“Do you want me to see you up?” Combeferre said. He knew she was young and he was old but he was giddy and warm. Éponine smiled.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She started towards the door and turned around to face Combeferre, her hair falling out of its bun and her cheeks red from the cold.

“You need to lighten up,” she teased and then, suddenly, she was gone and Combeferre was alone.

They didn’t see each other again for a while.


End file.
